


Perfect like Snow Globes

by SouthernBird



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Altean Lance (Voltron), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Christmas, Fluff, Galra Keith (Voltron), Galra Shiro (Voltron), Intergalactic Alliances, M/M, Olkari Pidge | Katie Holt, Shance Secret Santa 2017, Short & Sweet, implied war
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-21 20:46:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13151721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SouthernBird/pseuds/SouthernBird
Summary: [Shance Secret Santa 2017 for cata-strophes!]-The ancients have a funny way of playing a game with Lance. When a little water planet called Earth comes into the interplanetary alliance of Daibazaal and Altea, he is asked to leave Altea to integrate into the ranks of the main species of the new allied planet to learn their ways with the use of a flower shop.It is during the hectic Christmas season that two Galra patrol walk into his store years after leaving Altea, thus sparking a miracle of dreams he has not wished for in ages.





	Perfect like Snow Globes

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Shancemas! I can't believe it's that time of the year again!
> 
> I managed to finish this up just in time to post on Christmas Day! I am the secret Santa for one [cata-strophes](http://cata-strophes.tumblr.com/)! They had so many great prompts on their wish list, but I am a sucker for Galra!Shiro with Altean!Lance and I really wanted to do a flower shop AU! I hope you enjoy, my dear!

Earth is a fascinating, if archaic planet whenever Lance thinks upon his home of Altea. 

 

Transferring to this planet of oceanic blues and verdant greens had been a necessity for the alliance rather than for his own good. For the sake of his beloved son and second in line of the throne, King Alfor simply chose a route of diplomacy for Lance rather than pluck his beloved eldest child from her post. Allura was bred and raised to reign over Altea and the surrounding planets of the coalition, so Alfor’s decision was a simple one. Lance did best to not rebuke his father’s decision of his son’s fate, but the slight still aches at times considering. 

 

When told of how he would live his days from then on, all Lance asked was his presence not be heralded, not be announced, as he wanted to immerse himself into another world without fear of his royalty being used against him. It was a grand excuse, maybe, to believe that he could learn to love outside of his duties, and to be adored for himself, not for the circlet affixed with a gem of the royal family. 

 

For the years— years, yes, a fun concept though confusing at first for deca-phoebs makes more sense— that the Altean has listened and has watched, he has found that Earthlings are terribly funny. Whenever the humans of this planet perform their unpredictable actions, it warms Lance all over. No, they are not always so funny, these members of the reigning species of the planet, cruel and greedy, war mongering that took a long time to learn to treat others in their own race with respect. Yet, Lance has seen it, has seen how the humans have progressed with his time on this water laden sphere that rotates around a hot star. 

 

Humans can be so endearing, brimming with altruism and kindness in a myriad of manners that leave onlookers such as the Altean prince a little befuddled. One manner in particular, of course, has come around once again in jolly yuletides of tinsel and sleigh bells. 

 

Earth is particularly traditional in all fares holidays, humans laborious in their decorating the industrial structures that house matters mercantile and medical. There are more of these holidays that can be counted on fingers and toes of just one human, with blacks and oranges of the ghouls and goblins of Halloween or with the pastels of Easter to beckon forth a bunny that hops with loads of baskets. Then, though, there is Christmas, a season-long holiday that has lit a hearth of warm tidings in Lance's heart the most, especially with such fascination with gift giving. 

 

Humans, however, take gifts to such boundless extremes that Lance is certain that it behooves the alliances with Altea and Daibazaal to not cater to such events. Gifts are a natural occurrence, supposedly held out with such profound significance as they are given out of selflessness, but poor humans, they feel more obligated at heart than otherwise.

 

Gifts, to Lance, can be simple and elegant, finding that the presentation of flowers are as symbolic in their receipt as any box with a bow slapped on could be. Flowers pronounce meaning far beyond words, imparting sentiments that flourish in petals of whites and blues and yellows. Pinks are of hearts aflutter, and reds are of passions aflame. Flowers lack sophistication yet remain proficient, and that is how it should be.

 

Christmas is a tremendously hectic time in the shop, but there is a lull this time after human career getters partake of their lunch hour. He has spruced up from a morning rush of orders, and the Altean with his flowers as his only audience sits at the counter to arrange subliminal bouquets for all alike. 

 

The bell chimes from the door, and Lances ears perk at the arrival of a customer. He grins, tilting his head around the vase filled with baby’s breath and poinsettias. "Hello, welcome! Can I--?" 

 

He stops short, two Galra patrol standing in his doorway with expressions drowning in sobriety.

 

The Galra Empire and Altea had been strange partners in vigilante crime for longer than Lance has ever been told, several deca-phoebs even before Lance's elder sister had ever been a thought. While there is comradeship, to see two patrols out on earth is foreboding. 

 

"... May I help you?" Lance asks, implying their authority despite his own nestled in the bud of a gem affixed on the circlet that sits on his forehead. From their grim countenances, he can only assume that their presence in his florist shop is not one of partaking of advice for flower-gifting.

 

With a brief glance between each other, the two shift their weight in unison, a pair of motions that are apparent indications of how in sync the Galra are before the taller of them speaks, voice like thick chocolate poured from a steaming cup on wintry evenings. 

 

“My partner and I are looking for a prisoner who broke out from their cell that was under more surveillance than the attempted assassin of your King Grogory." Oh, and Lance is lost, tips of his eyes perking at the melodious baritone that simmers in his veins, keeps him on his toes and makes him think how interesting this tall, black-furred Galra is. 

 

That this patrolman knows some simple verbatim on Altean history is also flattering. 

 

"I haven't seen anyone that would catch my eye. Maybe a picture would help?" Lance offers with a tilt of his head, personally a little more enthused by the sight before rather than some convict on the run. 

 

Instead of Mister Tall, Dark, and Handsome, the shorter Galra pulls out a tablet from his bag, tapping the screen to brighten the image before revealing to the Altean an Olkari female with a sassy smirk that drips with the disdain of the asinine. “Name’s Pidge-- she was being questioned for her involvement with hacking the her planet’s government systems in an act of rebellion against Olkarion’s king.  As you know, none of the governments have sided with either side in their civil war, so we have to detain and return."

 

Lance frowns. Rebellions are common place in an universe that is more connected with each rise of an Altean sun and the fall of its two moons. Altea has been fortunate, but its time is assuredly inevitable when interplanetary peace crumbles like the wet sands that falls from his palms to rejoin the washing waves of sea water. 

 

But, Lance has not seen this hacker Olkari who is wanted by the Galra authority, so he will speak truthfully, “I’m sorry, but she isn’t familiar. I haven’t seen an Olkari since I was back home on Altea.” 

 

The shorter Galra groans in frustration, scrubbing the side of his jaw with the heel of his hand as he works his fangs into a gritting fashion, “another dead end. C’mon, Shiro, we might as well look in another quadrant.” 

 

The one called Shiro, the man that has caught Lance’s eyes with his sleek, ebony fur, a trademark sign of a Galra hybrid as Lance has yet to meet one that was not purple, stands at his place unmoving. His gaze, a golden glow of eyes that search the flower shop for some kind of secret meaning, glow in the afternoon sun, an assured sign that the day is ticking by and soon night will be upon them.

 

That this fellow alien on this humble blue planet has found pause in his quaint shop has puzzled the Prince of Altea greatly, but if he were to stay a little longer, he surely would not argue. No, instead, he feels an itch to make a grand impression, the little nuances of his character wanting to bloom in cumbersome wafts as it used to when he was growing up. Awkward, yes, to be a rambling flirt with an overzealous attitude towards all affairs romantic, but time has a wise way of molding one into a better mold of a past life. 

 

Lance must have missed the memo, perching his elbows on the counter and leaning his chin into his hands, “is there anything else I can do for you two then? Tea? Flowers for your mothers? Lovers?”

 

With a twitch of a wince, Lance is slapped with the sad thought that Mister Brooding and Tall might have a little thing waiting at home, someone more his type that cooks all those meat-filled meals that Galra are fondly ravenous over. The answer would be dreadful, so when nothing is mentioned, not even receiving a scoff of derision for his tease, Lance determines to take it as there is no one to warm his bed and his heart. 

 

For all the hesitancy that weighs the Galra patrolman to his place, he barely manages a smile, not once glinting his fangs to the Altean that waits for his reply as though the sharpness of canines would impose a darker intent.

 

"If... you would not mind, might we exchange contacts? The warrant for the Olkari's arrest is a pressing matter, and any help would be appreciated." 

 

Lance blinks, dead-panning at this poor sap that is too large and too imposing, a beast of his species known for brute strength and obstructive justice. At the obtainment for permission to have such information, Shiro has seemed to shrink before him, now a shyer, fluffier shadow within his decorated armor. It is no surprise from the gray bars that he is highly-ranked, and more so that he was assigned to this case due to the severity of the target. However, this adorable bashful gesture of ‘might we’ tickles Lance’s ribs. 

 

"I don’t see why not!" The Altean chirps, snatching a post it note from its stack to scribble down the main digits to the shop, humming at his sheer, dumb luck. Who would have thought that there would be a ravishing Galra figure of authority that would ping all of his soft weaknesses would come into his store today of all days, let alone ask for his number? What a score. 

 

Once he’s satisfied with the legibility of his writing, Lance shuffles over to Shiro with a grin bright with sincerity as he hands the number over before offering a pen and paper, “call me for anything, okay? The line’s always open.” 

 

Shiro stumbles with writing, grumbling under his breath over these archaic means to exchange contacts. Digital conveyance is more expected with civilizations of the universe that have achieved masterful advances in technology, but the man manages and it warms Lance through and through. 

 

With a pluck of the note from Shiro’s fingers, Lance’s eyes roam the paper, barely able to read the scrawls of lines and loops. but he can manage-- he will make _sure_ he can manage.  “I’ll be sure to call if anything comes up, sir!”

 

Shiro nods, and not even a tick later, turns to his companion, “you ready?” 

 

Time must have passed far too soon as the red of the other Galra’s armor glows a burnished copper in the setting sun, “yeah, let’s get these rounds finished up before we’re off shift.” 

 

Curtly, Shiro turns about face, or tries to, stopping short a half step before tipping his head politely to Lance. “Er… thank you for your cooperation.” 

 

"Any time, cutie," and yes, notch down another point for Lance as that black fur bristles in a display he knows is a batting fluster of the heart, and the bell is all Lance hears when the two exeunt.

 

Silence crawls back into the crevices of his world, this little florist shop light years away from his home, chipping away at the excitement that now chills over like the frost on the windows. Blue eyes stare out, an ocean gazing at the few people that are walking around in the cityscape, enraptured with the grandeur of urban bustle. 

 

There are still a few hours, so Lance spends them best he can, fortunate to have a customer base that soon keeps him busy until it’s time to close. Closing up for the night is a moment that relaxes him, especially after dealing with the evening patrons all a-flurry with their holiday party needs for bouquets and gifts galore. There is no one else but him and his only company now, a little cat he has lovingly named Blue after his sister’s lion-- the one he wishes he could have piloted in the Alliance fleet, but sadly was not chosen to. 

 

A queen and a soldier, that is Allura. He, known either as Allura’s brother or Alfor’s son, could be neither, only second in line and considered too sprightly for war. Allura is sturdy and quick on her feet, ponderously merciless yet ferociously compassionate all the same. She is a leader born and bred with a pedigree that far outweighs all others, and yet her brother is away from her, living in secret on Earth to determine the longevity of the alliance with this new planet located in the Milky Way Galaxy. 

 

Still, Blue listens to him at least, though that is not fair to his family to thrust his wayward opinion upon them. Alfor and Allura are simply busy bodies, too engrossed in the work to be done rather than the time that could be spent with family and with friends. Lance understands now the importance of hard work and listening to the reality of situations abound, but joy is still what makes a heart beat, not how stressed a king or princess could fret themselves in. 

 

“By Grogory, he was so good to look at, Blue,” he tells her while the cat eats away at her food from her dish and he is carefully setting empty vases up for tomorrow’s arrangements, "makes me miss the dances we used to have in the castle ballroom."

 

Blue chomps along a bite of dry cat kibble, her long tail draping along in pleasant curls while he goes on and on with his rambing over the daily news he has for her, possibly finding a strangeness in the things that beings of higher intelligence fall into quandaries over. She purrs happily away nonetheless, an avid listener while through the shop windows, the city falls into the veil of night scenes, of humans rousing up for another thrill of dancing to bass beats or visiting friends and families for gift giving and cookie eating. 

 

Just like balls, but grittier. Just like parties, but calmer. The city will never sleep, yet it will droll on all the same. 

 

With all of the evening’s preparations for tomorrow completed, Lance revels in the sigh that floats him down until he’s kneeling next to Blue to watch her eat. He wonders, as he usually does, if his pretty girl surmised that he is just a human with funny ears and cheeks mark. Then again, she is more than likely just satisfied with a good meal to be found in the same place every night with someone that gives her scratches under her chin that she likes best. 

 

Idly, his fingers stroke her fur, loving the softness that keeps her warm in spite of the temperature drop of nightfall, that keeps her comfortable when there is no blanket to curl up into while on her prowls. Blue rewards his gesture with an adorable chirp and a languid curl up into his palm, tail flicking about in delight at his soft chuckle. 

 

"I am happy you are my friend, Blue," he whispers to her, "for being overpopulated, Earth is a terribly lonely place.”

 

Purring, Blue pads around his arm to perch her front paws on his thigh to watch him, her eyes so brilliant, fractals of sapphires that are molten with the essence of life. There is wisdom found in those eyes, of tales that he will never know, of lessons he must learn on his own, and though he is no cat, Lance has been taught more from this tiny, fluffy creature more than he could have ever fathomed. 

 

Strangely, Blue perhaps blesses him with a sense of nostalgia, reminders of his father as her eyes are so reminiscent of that or even of the Queen of Daibazaal, as Honerva herself would dote upon a feline companion that would rub along her ankles as she talks of science and of discovery, husband in tow for a show of might rather than intelligence. 

 

Lance, if ever told that he could be homebound to beloved Altea tomorrow, would be sure Blue would accompany him back, nestled in the crook of his arm he would sleep the whole journey long. 

 

For in the end, Earth is a temporary place to rest his head while he dreams of home like the crooners on the radio sing of. How exciting it would be to be counted upon in the ranks of his family, respected in both royal blood and prestigious character, to fill in his seat once more. 

 

Instead, his dreams of the Altean castle shift along the reds and golds of the holidays, holly leaves hanging from the doorways while garland ties his wrists to a throne that is not his anymore. The color dampen in their tints, no longer resplendent like the Christmas trees and wreaths that bounce in his visions like carousel horses until a certain Galra adorned in his best armor fills the prince’s thoughts. Those eyes, golden like the lanterns that glow in wintry moonlight, would offer his hand for a dance, for a waltz with the bells of silver and Christmases of white tingling in their heads.

 

A snow globe fantasy shaken with childlike awe and delight, but all the same, Lance wakes up each honeyed morning with a goofy smile plastered on his face and a wistful sigh that exhales from beneath the sheets.  

 

(He fiddles each day with the paper with Shiro’s number every morning while his tea steeps in a cup that tells him ‘good morning, gorgeous.’ 

 

He never calls, and he is not called in return.)

 

—

 

Christmas Eve comes with a whoosh of gingerbread wafting along the velvet ropes that jingle with the inevitable flight of reindeer. Lance would have counted the days as he is apt to do, crossed out the day on the calendar in some menial routine to hasten the end to his time here one way or another, he has hardly had a thought to do so. Ever since the moment two Galra patrol entered the florist store, the weeks that have passed have since been a blur, a flurry of ruby bows and verdant vases, of begging, pleading patrons that are in their doomsday hour. 

 

For the pleasantries that come with the Altean court, Lance is fortunately on part with the essential social graces required to be at the forefront of ‘customer service.’ It is one mask to be cordial, but wear another with true comfort for frantic ladies suffering with the disparaging chains of Christmas parties lackluster weighing down their tides of good cheer. 

 

“You’re an absolute sweetheart, a real life saver,” one portly woman muttered through her lips, and Lance regrettably gazed along the creases of her make up askew with her lack of time to correct with all the details she could squeeze in, “you have an eye for flowers, dear, and my monster-in-law can’t say one bad thing about that.”

 

With a smile and acceptance of her tender, he had wished her a happy holiday with a murmur of genuine concern. It was with purse of his lips as the poor lady bristled for the onslaught of cold that he determines that there is no need to ever have one of these ‘monsters’ come to his home, into his life here, as they sound like grisly visages of degradation endless. 

 

It’s all bustle and tussle, all bartering out goods and services for the currency to pay rent and pay vendors, but finally, the eve of the Christmas is upon him, and with three in the afternoon ticking past, the customer fall short in their coming and going, leaving Lance to clean up for the last few hours of operation before he turns the open sign to close. 

 

It’s methodical, a pacifying sliver of space and time that is all his own even as Blue comes to her food bowl, even while he sweeps in tempo to the silver bell ode that croons from the radio from the counter. There is no such issue of home away from home, or even just dreaming of the hums of Altean exploration ships as they float though the dusts of ice and rock. He misses the helm, misses the lights that glow blue from their curves and the scaffolds, misses each star map and each palm of hand that would cup the teladuv transmitter to make the ship really _fly._

 

Reveries, of course, are flimsy nuances, broken by the tinging of bells of an opening door. The snap of thread that tethered Lance into his fantasy void of being with Allura and Alfor as they stand on the helm’s platform as was their due right is a shuddering jolt throughout his joints. 

 

_Put on a cheerful face. Smile. Be jolly. Be the bearer of prosperous intent, and the universe is a pearl in your hand._

 

Even now, Coran’s lessons echo in his thoughts, and yes, this is an act that Lance can play, one role that he is so adamant to perfect. It would be this, where he regals in a threadbare tenacity of articulated welcome, despite how profoundly he longs to be _home._  

 

“Hello!” and Lance pertains to remain chipper despite the ice water drowning his vein, spiking along his blood to keep him poignantly aware of the lack of his family’s presence, “may I help—?

 

Breath escapes him, drains from his lungs as he realizes that Shiro, the Galra patrol that has caught his fancy enough to waltz in cloudy dreams of ballrooms and fountains gilded in golds and sapphires, has walked through that door. 

 

It’s entirely unsuspected, unprecedented even, for a visit from the other would have only occurred in a daydream or two— yet, there he is, ironically there when Lance is certain that the Olkari hacker in question from weeks ago was caught recently before being deported back to her home planet. News, however, burns through the airways fast, and he also is certain that the target is as slippery as she is stealthy, smarter than the average Galra or Altean sentry as just mere few quintants away from Olkarion, Pidge managed to board a pod for another galaxy. 

 

Pouting was a too sensitive reaction to hearing that the hacker’s location had changed, thus eradicating any excuse to call the number now slightly faded from all the mornings he spent rubbing his thumb over the barely-legible scribble. Fate must have felt a pang of sympathy for him for here is now the object of his affections, there in his shop to speak with a voice of nutmeg and cinnamon. 

 

“Ah…” and Shiro is as undoubtedly stunned at this Christmas miracle as Lance, a mockery of a holiday bounty dropped into the Altean’s figurative lap with snow ribbons lacing over his dark armor and black fur. 

 

With a wisp of an inhale, Lance fills his lungs with the intent of formulating words to embark upon a series of inquiries, but Shiro shakes abruptly before the prince has a second to utter one syllable. Grumbling, the Galra trembles and shakes again, and it hits Lance that despite all that warm fur, much like his sweet Blue’s sleek coat, that Shiro is experiencing cold. 

 

Another breath, and Shiro stills entirely, barely breathing as his yellow eyes scour the flagrant petals of reds and ivories before settling in on a sight of two identical blues. 

 

"May... I help you?" Lance asks with precision that stems from the unsure because for all he knew with the breaking news cast of the Olkari’s recapture, this moment should have never should have an inkling of hope. 

 

Yet, Shiro’s gruff response is simple, tinged with a blush as he hunkers down in his armor as the wind howls along the snow outside, tucking into every inch of the city winter’s strange fluff, “I remembered that it was warm here…” 

 

Oh. Oh… that does not make much sense at the first tick, but when Lance mulls over the statement, picks it apart with that ingenious observation of character that he has managed to build into a talent, he cannot help but smile consolingly. 

 

"Daibazaal does not have winter, does it?"

 

Shiro snorts out a light chuckle, ears flicking up in amusement before tilting back as Earth children run down the street, boot prints the only evidence they were even there. “No, Daibazaal does not have this wretched white stuff.” 

 

Lance steps closer with a fidget of his fingers, but his grin is bright and tender, “It’s ‘snow.’ The humans call it snow.” 

 

“Oh, I am aware. The humans think it’s quite funny that us ‘overgrown cats’ even show the slightest bit of chill,” Shiro huffs with a kinder regard to Lance than he might would show any Earth native at the moment, “but home does not prepare me for this… ‘winter’ climate.”

 

With a hum, Lance skirts over to a display table, tilting a flower stem to and fro until it meets his satisfaction. “For the deca-phoebs I have been here, I have gotten quite used to it. It isn’t too terrible, and it’s quite pretty.” 

 

Silence seeks to gain a prominence in the ambiance, and with a curious turn of his head over his shoulder to glance back at Shiro, all Lance sees is a bit of worry and pity. It is a disconcerting hiss that twinges inside his ribs, and he is near offense before Shiro inches further inside of the warm store so that he can thaw out under a vent puffing out hot air. 

 

To see the bliss that flowers along the creases of Shiro’s mouth at the heat that buries into his fur blooms a bud of rosy warmth that creeps in gossamer threads along Lance’s chest. 

 

“You have been stationed on Earth for a long time, have you not? “

 

For the small, once infinitesimal hope that the seasons of his time here on Earth were simply not as countless as they seemed, not as many notches that etch into the wall of his psyche as morbid reminders that he is too long and too far from Altea. 

 

He has been spoken to, and oh, Lance wants to talk, wants to piece together a thrilling conversation, one that would woo and would entice any person regardless of species. Yet, he cannot, and he is bare of all his constructs to say in forlorn atonement, “yes, I have.” 

 

Shiro might would have wanted to thrash open a book of things he may comprehend, but possibly lacks experience, but he is cut short by a purring that weaves between his ankles. 

 

“Ah, speaking of cats,” and if Shiro were in blissful warmth before, he is exhilarated to see Blue, a wonderment in his eyes as he leans down to pet along her head to all the way down her back. Lance chokes, hiccups at how tender the Galra is with such a tiny, frail creature in comparison to claws, fangs, and sheer size alone. 

 

“Her… her name is Blue,” Lance offers, watching as Blue curves up into the heel of Shiro’s hand before slinking around his ankles with a chirp. She loves attention, loves how her looks alone beckons forth offerings of pets, brushings, and food from feeble mortals that cannot fathom the omnipotence of her influence upon them. 

 

Lance is slightly envious for what she is receiving. 

 

“Blue, what a good name,” though it really isn’t, the prince-turned-florist is befuddled by how perfectly the puzzle pieces have slotted together to bring the patrolman back into this shop. There has to be more to this story, more to the tapestry woven by a goddess from lores of old with her golden cheek marks and her silver eyelets all aglow with the mischief she is up to.

 

Blue is undeterred by Lance’s overthinking, just overly friendly to the point of criminal as she mewls about the store at her new prospect— no, her new property. 

 

“She’s friendly— humans tell me cats are not usually so,” Shiro basks in his knowledge, scratching right under the cat’s chin as if to soothe what naysaying humans claimed under the guise of sentient beings versus not so much. All in all, Lance is falling hard, too hard, too fast, jet streams of atmospheric drops that are burning his flesh too much, adrenaline spiking higher, _higher._

 

When does not speak, those ears perk, black fur on edge as sunrise eyes meet Lance’s oceanic irises that most assuredly reflect the tides churning with the onset of storms over the horizon, “are you well?” 

 

“Y-yes! Yes, definitely, more than well, better than well, I’m good!” Lance blathers out, cheeks flushed with his embarrassment rather than the hot blood rushing at the sound of that voice that adds a tinge of sensuality to the air. It’s stuffy in the storefront suddenly, just chides Lance into tugging at the collar of his turtleneck, “I am being a horrible host, I know, and I haven’t even offered tea or coffee—.” 

 

“I love coffee,” Shiro rolls over, toothy grin as he rises to his full height, shoulder line so broad that Lance would measure his own at least twice along it. 

 

It is such a quirky little reply that Lance blinks once, then probably four more times, before he relaxes, all that tension leaking from his lips as he sighs at how limber Shiro appears. The armor cannot lie even then, and that the Galra is making himself more comfortable takes Lance’s heart off of the rollercoaster and sets it right back down on solid ground. 

 

“Coffee it is,” is muttered softly with a whisk over to the steaming coffee pot to pour out a cup of brew, “do you prefer it black?” 

 

With a turn towards Shiro, Lance is stopped when he has an eyeful of Galra patrol armor, the lit vents filling every inch of his vision. His blues, inquisitive with a spice of concern, trail up to find Shiro’s eyes. 

 

“Might I… indulge in something, your highness?” 

 

Oh, Lance must shut his eyes tight at that, sighs out his misgivings for a title that is not his to hold on this planet, has not been his to tell the masses since he was at home. He still wears his circlet, a problem that he can see has been coming from miles and miles away with Shiro’s coming, but the proximity is nice, this residual heat that builds up in the spaces where they do not touch with hands but with souls. “I suppose? You’re throwing me a bit off.” 

 

Shiro chuckles, and there is no repulsion, no sinister attack of the underhanded sort hiding in the ripples of his laughter, “you were more open when I was hear last time. Have I caught you on the wrong footing?”

 

“Wrong footing is an understatement…” and it’s more or less feasible to lean on the side of caution though, well, Lance did call Shiro a ‘cutie,’ and that hasn’t changed, hasn’t been dulled by the hours apart. No, if anything, that yearning is an ember that has sparked yule logs burning into a tempered crush that will inevitably lead to disgustingly infatuated pining. 

 

With a twitch of his ears, Shiro croons deep in his chest, and that’s definitely bourbon smooth, bergamot spiced, “my apologies, but… I am still a little new at this ‘flirting’ thing. Galra, well… you know—.”

 

“You’re _flirting_ with me?!” 

 

No, no that wasn’t the correct outburst to have as Shiro’s ears have drooped, “I, yes? That is what Keith said it was called after he said he was tired of me talking about you. I simply wanted someone else to discuss you as I was unsure why I wanted to do so.” 

 

“Me? _Me_. I mean, please, I am more than flattered,” but Lance is not on Altea, he is not in his silk robes of azures and creams, not in his royal vestiges that would deem him befitting to have his hand kissed by someone looking to court him, to learn him. No, he is in a simple turtleneck, denim jeans, and an apron that has been soiled by the dirt and fertilizer that he uses for the flowers. He is not the epitome of prestige, the epicenter of focal point for the glitter and the shine that flutters with each step he takes. 

 

Though a once known prince, Lance is not the gem he wants to be, not the treasure encased in a snow globe perfection of shimmer and of snow that would forever be a display of his beauty. Here, other than the distinction of features that are so garishly not of Earth, he is normal, just a person of business that has two legs, two arms, but just one heart. 

 

Shiro abides him with a gaze that is delicate, his countenance thoughtful in a manner that just bursts forth the blooms of roses that wrap around Lance’s ribs in a fool’s hope of romance that he has sought after in repose. With a gentle touch, the Galra takes the cup of coffee for a sip, grinning ear to ear after the heat of the drink burns its course down his throat. 

 

“See? Keith mentioned I should ask you out for coffee— he said that the humans are very much into courtship that include this coffee, and with you with more knowledge of Earth’s customs…” 

 

Lance snorts, and Keith sounds like a really good buddy, a true-blue with a badge looking out for his partner in taking names and stopping interplanetary crime. How quaint that on this little water planet that this root into their paths, tighten holds until an Altean prince and a Galra patrol would happenstance come upon each other. 

 

“Yes, your buddy would be right, coffee dates are definitely a big deal,” Lance sighs with a shake of his head, all humor and sweetness, “but we already have coffee here, and it’s dreadfully cold outside, isn’t it?” 

 

“Is there not a song that the radios are playing concerning asking a presumable mate to stay in accordance to the cold? I have heard it many times. The humans must very much like it.”

 

Ancients help Lance, help him for Shiro is too adorable, too innocent of the commonality of wooing qualifying mates with drinks and silly songs. Garla are indeed perceptive, a highly intelligent species capable of assimilating into any culture they see fit, yes, but for the sake of songs that declare homage to winter and Christmas, well. Lance will just have to teach him, won’t he? 

 

And strangely enough, it begins all over again, more of a beginning of a journey than even before when a little Olkari that wanted to take her place in a war would help these two find their way to each other. How the ancients would have concocted this one, Lance cannot be sure, but for the time spent with Shiro, for their laughter while sipping coffee on the night of Christmas Eve that fades into Christmas morning, it is a maniacal plot that Lance appreciates. 

 

Years later, they will slide their fingers together as the snow floats from the overcast sky, coffee cups sitting empty on their kitchen table. Shiro will listen to Lance singing with the radio, will sit back in his seat as Lance harks heralding angels and jingles bells for one more open sleighs. 

 

What they will have will be grander than any present that could be wrapped under their funny pine tree decked in tinsel and ornaments, even if home for them are planets galaxies away. They will make their own home in the little garden apartment above the florist shop, will kiss and will laugh together with each winter that they spend hanging stockings over a homey fireplace while Blue sleeps curled up in Shiro’s favorite chair. 


End file.
